


fever dream high (in the quiet of the night)

by ShowMeAHero



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Food Poisoning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nausea, Post-IT (2017), Prompt Fill, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump, characters in their mid-20s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “You’re s-s-such a dick,” Bill laughs. Eddie shrugs, sipping his drink.“You look absolutely dead on your feet, Rich, are you okay?” Eddie hears Ben ask, and he looks over, brow furrowed, just in time to see Richie stumble a little bit. He looks pale and dizzy, shaking his head, looking down. Eddie’s heart jumps into his throat.In the next moment, Richie tries to take a step, but he begins to sway on his feet, and Eddie doesn’t even think before he’s moving.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 28
Kudos: 391





	fever dream high (in the quiet of the night)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic after receiving a commission with a list of very specific prompts, all of which have been incorporated into this.
> 
>  _Please_ read the tags, there are graphic descriptions of vomiting in this.
> 
> Title taken from ["Cruel Summer"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1BxfuPKGuaTgP7aM0Bbdwr?si=d3cqnzeHS0-zrS0G6WpvYw) by Taylor Swift.

When the seven of them graduated high school, Richie and Bill had asked the rest of the Losers if they wanted to go to college _with_ them, down in Boston. Eddie had been the first to jump on the opportunity, but the rest of them had accepted within days, and they’d never separated. They even managed to drag Mike with him, promising him that Derry would still be there if he ever wanted to come back; the longer they were gone, though, the less any of them had any desire to go back.

That was nine years ago, now, when they graduated from Derry High School. They’re all twenty-seven, and they still live in Boston, though they’re not shoved into one apartment together anymore. Now, Eddie shares his two-bedroom apartment with Richie and Stan. Being engaged, he and Richie share the larger bedroom. They also have the largest living room out of any of them — Ben and Bev’s living room is cramped with furniture, and Mike and Bill live in a pretty much _literal_ shoebox — so, most times the Losers all hang out together, they hang out at their place.

Eddie prefers this. He knows exactly how clean his place is, for one, and he has all the shit he would need should anything go wrong, too. It makes him feel reassured, to know his first aid supplies are on hand if he needs them. He’s come leaps and bounds since he was thirteen and first started rebelling against his mother, but old habits die hard and all that. It’s just _reassuring._

Eyeballing Richie after their group dinner that Tuesday, he’s glad they usually hang out at their place, because he’s acting a little off. Eddie thinks he’s maybe coming down with something; he’s a little slower, a little quieter. He’s slightly paler than usual, circles under his eyes. He’s laughing with Ben by their bookshelf, arms folded across his chest; Eddie’s trying to keep his eyes on him, because he’s looking just a little bit chalkier than he had right after dinner.

Bill’s talking to Eddie, in theory. He’s working through a snag in the plot of the new book he’s working on, and once he gets to this point, he’s mostly talking to himself, so Eddie just keeps nodding, watching Richie in the peripherals of his vision. Even if he _is_ getting sick, he still looks handsome in his dark jeans and cherry-red sweater, long hair loose and curling around his face; he tucks it behind his ear on the left side when Ben makes him laugh. Eddie finds himself smiling a little, just from watching him.

“What do you th-think?” Bill asks, and Eddie snaps back to looking at him again.

“I think you should just trust your instincts,” he says broadly, because he has no idea what Bill is talking about. Bill’s looking a little pale, too, come to think of it. Eddie frowns at him, giving him a little bit more attention. “Well— I just mean, you’re pretty good at what you’re doing until you get to the endings.”

“You’re s-s-such a dick,” Bill laughs. Eddie shrugs, sipping his drink.

“You look absolutely dead on your feet, Rich, are you okay?” Eddie hears Ben ask, and he looks over, brow furrowed, just in time to see Richie stumble a little bit. He looks pale and dizzy, shaking his head, looking down. Eddie’s heart jumps into his throat.

In the next moment, Richie tries to take a step, but he begins to sway on his feet, and Eddie doesn’t even think before he’s moving. He drops his drink, barely registering the sound of his glass shattering on the ground as he grabs the back of the sofa and vaults it. He leaps over their coffee table just in time to catch Richie as his knees crumple, mid-fall.

“Fuck,” Richie mumbles near his ear. Eddie shifts Richie’s weight, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage as he lays Richie down, taking his wrist in his hand to feel his pulse. It’s fluttering, speeding up under Eddie’s fingers. Richie pushes Eddie away, sits up and shuffles to the side a bit.

“What’s wrong?” Eddie demands. Richie shakes his head; Eddie just catches his face, presses the back of his hand to his forehead. “You feel warm— Rich, what’s wrong? What hurts?”

Richie shakes his head again. After a moment, his stomach makes a loud gurgling sound, and he burps loudly. It’s a disgusting, wet sound, coming from deep inside his belly, and Richie groans when it’s done. His stomach churns, and he says desperately, “I need to throw up.”

There’s not even time to move before Richie scrambles to his feet and darts out of the room. Eddie doesn’t hesitate before running after him. He finds Richie on their bathroom floor, both hands gripping the toilet bowl as he leans up over it.

“Eddie, get out,” he manages to say, shifting back for a moment before he burps and has to lean over the toilet again. Eddie comes forward anyways, palms sweating as he takes Richie’s glasses off of his face. Richie burps again, then drops his head, swallowing thickly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eddie tells him. It takes him another moment to move, where he just stares at Richie hunched over the toilet, but then he’s in action, digging through the drawer under the sink until he finds one of Richie’s hair elastics. He gathers Richie’s hair back gently and pulls it into a bun at the back of his head.

Richie swallows hard again, then again, panting in between each one, trying to catch his breath. He’s obviously trying desperately not to vomit, but it’s also obvious he’s fighting a losing battle. Richie burps again, a wet sound gurgling up from deep inside his belly. He makes a soft whimpering sound, forehead pressed against the back of his hand where he’s gripping the toilet bowl. After a long, quiet moment, Eddie rubbing his back slowly, Richie burps again, his body shaking.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Richie says quietly. He sounds distraught, his voice thin, his hands shaking as he grips the rim of the toilet bowl tightly. Eddie can hear Richie’s stomach gurgling; it’s audibly churning inside him, actually, making loud sounds like whatever’s in there is fucking frothing or bubbling or some shit, which is _not_ a good fucking sign. Neither, though, is the way Richie goes chalk-white, his belly making a loud growling sound before he burps loudly and leans up, heaving as he finally vomits into the toilet bowl. It’s a lot of bile and the grape juice Richie had drank at dinner, but it keeps coming, Richie heaving hard into the toilet, burping around another wave of vomit coming out his mouth.

“You poor thing,” Eddie murmurs. Richie turns his head away once it finally stops, shifting forward again to burp hard and then spit into the toilet. He leans up wearily to flush it, then collapses back against their bathtub, chest heaving. Eddie scoots forward a little bit, hands shaking when he reaches out to smooth back the loose hairs around Richie’s temples, slick with sweat. “You look miserable.”

“I’m okay,” Richie tells him. His voice is still scratchy and thin. He tips his head back against the rim of the bathtub, shutting his eyes and breathing slowly, deeply. “I’m fine, I feel much better now.”

“Are you—” Eddie starts to ask, before Richie’s scrambling back up and over the toilet again, swallowing hard before he burps again. This time, he just groans, leaning the side of his head against the toilet bowl. “You were saying?”

“Fuck off,” Richie spits, before he gags and then heaves again, actually getting something up again this time. Eddie just sits on his heels, rubbing Richie’s back slowly as he gasps between heaves and vomits again. He sits back, quiet this time, leaning against the bathtub again. Eddie leans over him to flush for him.

“Is he okay?” Stan asks from the doorway. Richie offers a half-hearted thumbs-up, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“Maybe he caught something,” Eddie tells him. “I don’t know if it’s food poisoning yet or not. Nobody else is sick, are they?”

“No,” Stan says. “Well, not yet, anyways.”

Richie groans a little bit, tipping slightly to his side and drawing his legs up, curling around his stomach. Eddie reaches out to guide Richie’s head to his shoulder.

“Probably send them home,” Eddie tells Stan. “I think he’s gonna have a long night, I don’t think he’s done anytime soon.”

“Good luck,” Stan says, closing the door behind himself. Richie turns further into Eddie’s body, twisting up to get closer to him. He’s sweating hard, still in his sweater and his jeans; Eddie pushes back at him.

“Let me get your sweater off,” Eddie tells him. Richie shakes his head, curling back into him. “Rich, you’re gonna overheat.”

“Gimme a minute,” Richie mumbles. “I can’t move, I’m too dizzy.”

“Okay,” Eddie says. “You’re okay, Rich, I got you. Is it something you ate, do you think?”

Richie shrugs. Eddie can _hear_ his stomach groan in the silence, and Richie’s face goes ashy again. Even his _lips_ go white. Eddie reaches out, rubbing over Richie’s soft belly through his sweater to try and soothe it. He hears his stomach gurgle loudly, and Richie burps again. He moans, softly, and Eddie feels his stomach churn under his palm. Richie’s shoving him away, in the next moment, pulling himself up over the toilet again. He gasps, then gags before he burps wetly.

 _“Fuck,”_ Richie whimpers softly. Eddie rubs his back, trying not to look when Richie burps again, then vomits hard, his face flushing red as he stopped for just a brief moment before burping again and spitting. He sniffles, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“I got you,” Eddie tells him again, feeling useless. He reaches around Richie, pushes his sweater up to rub his belly right against his skin. Richie was hot to the touch under him, and Eddie could feel his stomach gurgling as well as he could hear it. He’s never had abs or anything like that, always been a little bit soft, but he _feels_ bloated under Eddie’s hand. Eddie rubs where his stomach muscles are tight from vomiting; Richie shivers.

After a moment, he sits back again. He reaches up with a shaking hand to flush the toilet, and Eddie takes advantage of the moment to push Richie’s sweater up. He looks more bloated than normal, pretty much what Eddie was expecting. He rubs his belly again, pushing in a little bit. Richie gags when he does it, then burps again, shoving Eddie away before vomiting into the toilet again.

“Sorry,” Eddie says softly. Richie shakes his head.

“No, I’m just—” he starts to say, then burps wetly and groans. “Aw, fuck. Oh, _fuck—”_

“You’re okay,” Eddie tells him gently, as Richie chokes on a sob and then burps again. He heaves over the toilet again, still bloated even though it’s mostly just bile coming up now. He coughs, sounding miserable, his hands shaking against the toilet bowl where he’s holding it. Even his arms are trembling, all the way up to his shoulders. “Hey, hey, I gotcha. You’re gonna be alright, it’s almost over.”

Richie doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop, this time. He’s almost dry-heaving, the sounds of it incredibly strained as he coughs over the bowl. He sounds like he’s trying to get whatever it is _out,_ if there even _is_ anything, and his stomach muscles are shaking, taut from the strain of how hard he’s throwing up. He’s red-faced and sweat-drenched, gasping for breath when he can’t get enough air in between heaves, and Eddie’s starting to freak out a little bit, trying to calm him down. He doesn’t have emetophobia, _exactly,_ but seeing _Richie_ get this sick, vomiting so hard he’s crying— It’s enough to freak out over, he thinks, even if he wouldn’t even _think_ of letting anyone _but_ him be Richie’s caretaker.

He just keeps gently rubbing Richie’s back, hopeful that it would at least _slightly_ calm him down. Richie seems to barely have the strength to throw up anymore, but his body is still trying. Eddie can still hear his stomach gurgling when he finally falls back, curling up on the floor with his head in Eddie’s lap. Eddie flushes the vomit and bile before either of them sees it.

“You should drink some water, Rich,” Eddie tells him softly. Richie shakes his head, just a little bit. He burps quietly, groans. Eddie reaches down to rub his bloated belly again under his sweater; just a sliver of his stomach shows while he’s trying to soothe it. “Let me help you get these clothes off, drink some water, cool you down a little. Okay? It’ll help.”

Richie doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t actively fight against him this time, so Eddie shifts to sit him up. Richie’s still all chalky and exhausted-looking, now with dark bruises under his eyes, his curls plastered along his hairline with sweat; he lets Eddie strip his sweater off over his head. It’s drenched in Richie’s sweat. He looks him over, now bare-chested but still in his jeans, which looks so fucking uncomfortable.

“Can I get your jeans off?” Eddie asks. He reaches down and pops the button on Richie’s jeans, and Richie groans, reaching down to rub at his own stomach. Eddie rubs it, too, in soft, gentle circles. It gurgles again under his hand, churning beneath Eddie’s palm, so he rubs a little bit harder in the hopes that it would help. He unzips Richie’s pants all the way.

“I feel like _shit,”_ Richie groans weakly. Eddie rubs down into the parts of his belly exposed by opening his jeans, fingers sliding under his waistband. Richie’s bloated, swollen belly presses hot against his hand as he does. “How the fuck did this happen so fast?”

“You started looking sick during dinner,” Eddie tells him. “I thought you were looking pale, I just didn’t know what was wrong.”

Richie nods weakly. Eddie’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and Richie waves at him, so he digs it out to check. It’s a text to the Losers group chat from Bill that says, _Mike and I got sick on the ride home,_ and another text a moment later from Bev that says, _Ben’s sick, too._

“Mike, Bill, and Ben are all sick, too,” Eddie tells him. Richie rubs at his face tiredly. “What did the four of you eat that the rest of us didn’t?”

Richie shrugs. He takes the paper cup of water when Eddie hands it to him, taking the smallest sip Eddie has ever seen.

“You need to drink more water than that,” Eddie tells him. He fills up a second cup and sits it down next to him. “You’re going to get dehydrated.”

“It’s just gonna come back up,” Richie replies. He sets the cup down beside the second one on the bathroom floor and looks down at his hands for a long moment. He burps, then shuts his eyes, shaking his head. He breathes in slow, even breaths, then swallows hard.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. Richie’s stomach gurgles again, and he drops his head into his hands. “Hey, you’re okay.”

Richie burps quietly, then lifts his head. He inhales through his mouth, then lurches up over the toilet in a sudden flash of motion, retching hard. Nothing comes up but another mouthful of bile, but Richie keeps dry-heaving, sounding fucking miserable as he does it. Eddie rubs his back through it until he catches his breath and manages to stop.

“Drink some water,” Eddie tells him. “It’ll help it come up easier.”

Richie shakes his head, but he takes the cup of water when Eddie lifts it and presses it into his hand. Eddie keeps rubbing his stomach while Richie makes himself drink the water down. He does it too fast, even Eddie can tell; he feels Richie’s stomach churn under his hand as the water hits it, then makes it start to roil.

“Oh, fuck,” Richie says again. He pulls away from Eddie’s hands and drags himself over the toilet again, leaning his cheek against the rim of the bowl to vomit up the water and bile again. Eddie was right, it _does_ come up easier, but it also makes him throw up longer. He starts to dry-heave again, gagging, so Eddie pulls him back, wiping at his sweaty face with his sleeve.

“Breathe,” Eddie tells him. Richie does, ragged and hard through his mouth, then out his nose. Eddie passes him the second water cup. “Drink this one slower. Breathe. Take breaks.”

Richie does as he’s told, taking one small sip, then a breath, then a slightly longer sip. Eddie gets up and refills the first cup while he does it, swapping it out when Richie finishes the one in his hands. He does this twice before Richie’s pale face starts getting an ashy green undertone again, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“Drink some water,” Eddie tells him. Richie shakes his head again. _“Richie.”_

“I can’t—” Richie starts to say, then stops, swallowing again. He shuts his eyes, breathes through his mouth. He leans up over the toilet again, a little slower this time, but nothing comes up. He burps once, then a second time, wetter and deeper, before he groans. Eddie sits down beside him, folding his legs up to wrap one arm around them, rubbing his back with his other hand. He can hear Richie’s stomach gurgling, almost without stopping now. When Eddie leans into him and rubs his belly, it makes a hard burbling sound instead. Richie moans.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Eddie tells him. Richie’s face gets greener, his breath coming faster. He pulls himself up over the toilet bowl again, but still nothing happens. He gags, for a moment, then burps again. Eddie rubs his stomach a little more firmly. He can feel Richie’s bloated stomach under his hands, can feel its unnatural movements and the way his belly is churning hard. Richie’s heart is pounding so hard Eddie can feel it in his belly.

“Eddie,” Richie says softly, sounding so miserable that Eddie’s heart twists. He shifts so he’s closer to Richie’s side.

“You’re okay,” Eddie says again, then pushes on Richie’s stomach. Richie groans loudly, his stomach gurgling so hard under Eddie’s hand that he feels it move. When Richie sits up again, Eddie can feel the water in his belly sloshing around with the movements, roiling inside of him, and Richie burps again, longer this time. At the end, he gags, then retches, and the water starts coming back up, finally. Eddie pushes harder into his belly as Richie vomits, all water and thin mucus and stomach acid, churning up into a dump of bile that comes out of his throat and into the toilet. It happens a second time, then a third, Eddie rubbing his stomach through the whole thing.

Richie’s face is still white, green-hued, splashes of color high on his cheeks. He gasps, trying to catch his breath. He motions towards his stomach with a cyclical hand moment, then manages to say, “I’m— I’m having trouble, I can’t get it up—”

“Hold on,” Eddie tells him, then fills the water cups up again before he gets up to leave the bathroom. Richie stretches for him, but Eddie kisses him on the forehead, then says, “I’ll be back in two seconds, you’re gonna be okay, just hold on.”

Richie nods. Eddie leaves him there, heading to their kitchen. He finds Stan going through their refrigerator, checking the labels on everything.

“Find anything?” Eddie asks, grabbing a box of crackers out of the cabinet. Stan tosses a bottle of mustard in the trash and shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says. He looks over their kitchen, hands on his hips. “Maybe something was undercooked?”

“Maybe,” Eddie allows, even though he cooks everything meticulously, and _cleans_ everything meticulously, and— “Wait— Where’s the box for that sushi roll thing, the chicken thing that Bill brought?”

Stan frowns, then turns to dig through the trash. He comes up with a box, then reads the side of it. He sighs after a moment. “Yeah, this sell-by date was weeks ago.”

“Will you text the group chat?” Eddie says.

“Yeah.” Stan chucks the box back in the trash and wipes off his hands. “Good luck with him. Let me know if you want me to take a shift.”

“Can do.” Eddie stops in his first aid cabinet, looking over his bottles. There’s not much he can do until Richie’s done vomiting, since he’s pretty sure it’s food poisoning; they’ll just have to wait it out. All he really can do is keep Richie hydrated and calm until it’s over.

He brings a Gatorade from the fridge and an ice pack from the freezer with him to the bathroom when he goes. He can hear Richie groan softly before loudly burping the closer he gets. He takes a breath before he pushes the door open again.

“Hey,” Eddie says, kicking the door shut behind himself. He grabs a hand towel off the rack by the sink and wraps the ice pack up in it, pressing it to the back of Richie’s neck where he’s still hunched over the toilet. He lifts Richie’s head a little bit, holding out a cracker.

“Eddie, _no,”_ Richie tells him.

“Eddie, yes,” Eddie murmurs. “You need something in your stomach, Richie. Gatorade or crackers, your choice. Your body needs something to come up.”

“Then what’s the fucking point, if it’s just gonna come back up?” Richie grumbles. He picks the crackers, chewing on one so slowly and miserably that Eddie almost takes it out of his hand himself. Instead, he lets Richie force himself to finish it, then drink another paper cup full of water before he sits back. Eddie cracks the Gatorade open and holds it out. _“Eddie.”_

 _“Richie,”_ Eddie says right back, in the same tone. Richie glares at him unsuccessfully, his face tinted green again. He takes the Gatorade and takes a long, slow pull from it, this throat moving in little gulps as he drinks. Eddie’s almost distracted by the movement of his Adam’s apple. He would’ve been more turned on by it, if Richie wasn’t seconds from vomiting his own lungs. As it is, he’s just trying not to vomit himself from proximity, counting his fucking blessings that he and Stan didn’t eat any of Bill’s weird-ass chicken-sushi thing.

Richie groans, rubbing at his stomach again. Eddie pulls him into his lap, rubbing his belly for him. He’s still bloated, pressing his sweaty face into Eddie’s chest. Eddie manages to tug his jeans down and off, leaving him in his boxer-briefs on the floor. He chews on a second cracker, looking like he’d rather be doing literally fucking _anything_ else. Eddie nudges the second paper cup towards him again.

“I’ll stay here with you,” Eddie tells him.

“You don’t have to,” Richie says. “I know you probably hate this. You don’t have to stay.”

“No, I want to,” Eddie says.

“You _want_ to,” Richie repeats. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I mean I want to _help,”_ Eddie clarifies. “I don’t mind sitting with you.”

Richie looks like he wants to say something, but his stomach burbles loudly, then makes a loud sound after, a strange snarling gurgle they haven’t heard yet tonight. Richie groans with it, pressing his hands into his face. Eddie leans up and over him, rubbing his belly as he breathes heavily. He pulls up again, gripping the edges of the toilet bowl with white-knuckled hands. He swallows hard, then burps, deep in his throat. After a moment, he burps again, then sniffles. His stomach gurgles.

“I gotcha,” Eddie tells him, rubbing his back. Richie swallows hard, shutting his eyes. He rocks forward, burps hard, then exhales slowly. Eddie keeps rubbing his back in gentle circles when Richie rests his head against his hand. He burps again, a wet sound that makes his stomach gurgle when it comes out. He’s ashy again, a green shade over his face when he tips his head to look at Eddie.

“Hey, you should totally just kill me,” Richie says. Eddie strokes back the sweaty locks of hair that have sprung free from his bun.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Eddie says. He’s been shoving back anxiety about this the entire night so far, but Richie actively talking to him is helping. Luckily, he’s spent so many years fighting back the anxiety that his mother instilled in him, going to therapy, getting medications, working on himself—

After all that, he can handle shit like this now. He almost feels _normal._

Richie groans, his stomach rumbling loudly. It makes a wet gurgling sound next, then keeps burbling after, roiling inside him; Eddie reaches around him to rub his belly again. He’s still bloated, and when Eddie’s hand touches him again, the muscles twitch, his belly churning again under his hand.

“Tell Bill I’m gonna _kill him,”_ Richie spits backwards at him. Another burp bubbles up his chest and out from his throat, and he ducks his head down, but nothing comes up. He swallows again, then stops, still pale and shaking. He’s still breathing hard, and he swallows hard twice in a row before he burps, then gags, leaning up again to spit into the toilet. For a second, that’s it, and then his stomach makes a loud gurgling sound and he burps loudly.

“You’re alright,” Eddie says, moments before Richie’s puking again, his belly groaning excessively through it as he vomits the entire contents of his stomach. It comes up hard and fast, barely leaving any space in between for Richie to breathe; he gasps every time he gets a chance. Eddie keeps rubbing his stomach through it, feeling the bloated, sick gurgles rumbling under his hand. Richie doesn’t keep _anything_ down, fucking crackers and Gatorade and stomach bile, everything coming up with the water he’d been drinking. After a moment, he’s vomiting chunks of half-digested chicken and fish.

He coughs, his throat catching on actual physical food finally coming back up instead of just liquid vomit. He gags again, lurching forward hard to puke again, and he’s not having any trouble vomiting anymore. Richie gasps, pressing his face into the rim of the toilet bowl.

“Fuck,” he manages, before he’s throwing up again, his stomach making loud gurgling sounds still as he does it. Eddie presses lightly on his bloated belly, and Richie moans, burping so hard he vomits at the end of it, a nasty, wet sound. Another mouthful of half-digested food comes out. He’s sweating horribly, shaking as he clutches the toilet bowl, but Eddie knows he can’t move him away; there’s no point. He’ll just end up right back in the same spot anyways.

There’s really nothing for Eddie to do but wait him out. Richie will take a breath, he’ll calm down for a moment, and then his stomach will churn again and he’ll burp or gag, the sound catching deep inside his chest, and then he’ll be vomiting again. He throws up his entire dinner bit by bit, coughing hard when chunks get caught in his throat. Eddie buries his face in his own knees and keeps rubbing his belly. As the night wears on, he can feel that Richie gets less bloated, but he’s still not close to normal by a long shot.

It’s a while before Richie pulls back and lays on the floor, rather than just keeping his eyes shut with his head resting in the toilet bowl. Eddie flushes the toilet again, then curls around Richie’s back, rubbing his belly gently. Richie presses his face into the tile.

“How you doing?” Eddie asks. Richie swats at him weakly. “Yeah, stupid question. Wanna go to bed?”

“I don’t know if I can move,” Richie tells him tiredly. “Or should. I still feel like shit.”

“I can set you up with a trash can,” Eddie says. Richie turns his face more fully into the cold tile of the bathroom floor, curled up loosely on their bath mat. “Or we can stay here. Your call.”

“I’ll move soon,” Richie assures him. “Just— Gimme a sec.”

Eddie gives him more than that, waiting quietly as Richie’s breathing slows down. His stomach is still gurgling under Eddie’s hand, but he’s less bloated and he’s got a little bit of color back. He keeps calming until his breathing is finally even.

“How’re you feeling?” Eddie asks quietly. Richie makes a soft groaning sound.

“Queasy as fuck still,” Richie murmurs back. His throat sounds raw. “Don’t fucking know how.”

“You’ve got food poisoning,” Eddie tells him. “You’ll be sick for a while no matter what.”

“I swear, I _will_ kill Bill,” Richie says. “Those movies were made about what I’m gonna fucking do to him the next time I see him.”

“I’ll hold him down for you,” Eddie adds. Richie huffs a laugh. “Get some rest.”

“On the floor?” Richie asks. “I figured you’d want to drag me out the second you could.”

“It’s not ideal,” Eddie allows. It’s _not,_ but Richie’s still shaking, and he’s not a _monster._ He won’t make him move like this. Plus, they’re twenty-seven; they can afford to spend a night on the bathroom floor. It’s pretty much required, at some point, he thinks. A rite of passage. “I’ll move you later, once you’re feeling better.”

“I’ll never feel better,” Richie says miserably. Eddie turns his face into the back of Richie’s neck. “I’m gonna die on the floor with my guts inside out. Bill killed me.”

“You are not _inside out,”_ Eddie asserts.

“Feels like it,” Richie says. He sounds more tired, now. He yawns. His belly gurgles under Eddie’s hand when he shifts, his stomach turning. He burps, then exhales slowly.

“You good?” Eddie asks cautiously. Richie doesn’t move for a second, then nods.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he tells him quietly. He burps again, low in his throat, then moans before he sits up again. After a moment, he lets another wet burp roll out of his mouth, his stomach making a sound like a small clap of thunder before he makes a disgusting gurgling sound in his throat and vomits again.

“Let it out,” Eddie tells him. “No rush. It’s okay.”

Richie throws up another mouthful of bile and chicken, groaning as he does. After a beat, he leans back again, wiping at his mouth again with the back of his hand.

“Are you gonna be sick again?” Eddie asks. Richie shuts his eyes, breathing jagged, deep, then nodding, lurching forward to puke heavily. When he feels it start coming up, Eddie can almost see the sensation rising in a wave and rushing out his mouth. Eddie smooths his hair back again, redoes the bun after a moment. After a bit, he grabs a washcloth from the linen closet by the door, running it under the cold water of the faucet and wringing it out. He wipes Richie’s face with it, then wets it again and puts it on the back of his neck, against his clammy skin.

Richie tries to catch his breath, swallowing thickly so he won’t vomit again. Eddie doesn’t know why he’s still trying, but he rubs his back through it. He pants in between swallows, trying to breathe still, but it’s been hours of this and Eddie knows what’s coming next before it happens. He takes another washcloth out and dampens it to clean the tears off Richie’s face. He can hear Richie’s stomach groaning as he pants over the toilet bowl.

“Just let it out, Rich, it’ll be over faster, you’re almost there,” Eddie tells him. Richie doesn’t respond, but he looks like he wants to. After a moment, he opens his mouth to reply, and he hiccups when he does. He swallows hard again, looking down, his throat working hard when he forces whatever it is back down. _“Rich.”_

“I’m good,” he says, then burps, pushing his hand against his closed mouth. He shuts his eyes, then swallows again. He gags, then throws up in his mouth before swallowing hard.

“Richie, Jesus Christ,” Eddie says. Richie pushes his face into the rim of the toilet bowl again, swallowing thickly again before breathing out his mouth. He twitches, his face pale, his nose an irritated pink, eyes rimmed in red. He groans, low in his throat, rocking forward. His stomach makes the weird snarling sound again. He swallows again, closing his eyes, and a disgusting wet burp gurgles out of his mouth before he moans, long and low. Eddie rubs his back firmly, in slow circles. “Let it out.”

Richie looks fucking miserable, new tears streaming down his face, but he nods, letting his head fall over the toilet again. He lurches, body jerking as he hiccups, then burps loudly, another wave of vomit visibly rolling up his body and coming out of his mouth. He gasps, then vomits again, sitting up over the toilet with the force of it. He empties the contents of his stomach, nearly unending, heaving up the last of whatever’s still in him.

When he’s done, fucking _finally,_ he sits back against the bathtub, gasping for air. He swallows hard again, shutting his eyes. After a long moment, he exhales. Eddie flushes the toilet for him.

“I wanna go to bed,” Richie says tiredly. Eddie helps him up, walks him through washing his face and brushing his teeth in the sink before he helps him across the hall to their bedroom. He lays Richie down without any new clothes on, still just in his boxer-briefs, and tucks their blankets up around him, stroking his hair back from his face. Richie looks up at him, exhaustion all over his pale face.

“I’m here,” Eddie tells him. He sits down on the edge of their bed, pulling over the little trash can next to Richie’s side of the bed. “If you’re gonna be sick again, do it in this, okay?”

“Gotcha,” Richie mumbles. He shifts closer to the edge; after a moment, he takes Eddie’s hand and squeezes it. “Sorry I’m so gross, Eds. I know this is probably, like. Your living nightmare.”

Eddie pauses, considering his answer. Then, he leans over and kisses Richie’s forehead, then says, “Only because you’re sick, Richie. I just want you to feel better.”

Richie tightens his grip again, closing his eyes and murmuring, “Proud of you, babe.”

Eddie strokes Richie’s hair back again, then says, “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be right here.”

Blearily, Richie nods, digging his face into his pillow. Eddie squeezes his hand, then releases him, drawing back. He returns to the bathroom and picks up Richie’s clothes, the washcloths, the hand towel, the ice pack. He throws out the paper cups and saves the rest of the Gatorade and the box of crackers. When he brings the crackers back to the kitchen, it’s dark, and Stan’s long gone; Eddie realizes he has no idea what time it is.

He returns to the bathroom and looks it over before he goes under the sink for his cleaning supplies. For the next thirty minutes, he does everything short of rinse the entire room in bleach, just to make himself feel better about all of it. It lessens his anxiety a lot, to clean this deeply. When he’s done, the room is nearly fucking sparkling; he puts everything back in its place. After a deep breath, he returns to their bedroom.

Richie’s sitting on the edge of their bed, his arms wrapped around his middle as he leans over the trash bin, in between his legs. He’s just sitting, though, not moving, head held over the bin. Eddie shuts the door softly behind himself.

“Your belly's really still sick, isn’t it?” Eddie asks quietly. Richie nods mournfully, eyes still closed. “I’m so sorry, Richie.”

Richie shrugs, doesn’t say anything. After a long moment, he swallows hard, then says, “You’re the only thing that makes me feel better.”

Eddie doesn’t respond for a bit. He comes over and sits beside Richie on the bed, putting his arm around him and rubbing his back gently.

After a moment, Richie says, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I won’t leave again, I promise,” Eddie tells him. Richie nods, swallowing heavily again. His grip on his own stomach tightens a bit, which can’t feel good, but then he burps thickly.

“I think I’m gonna be sick again,” Richie says. “Hand me the trash can, please, Eds, I’m—”

Eddie grabs up the trash bin, bringing it under Richie’s chin just in time for him to take hold of it and vomit into it. It’s mostly water and bile, and he groans before handing the bin back.

“It’s not as bad anymore,” Richie tells him. Eddie sets the trash bin aside with a little frown, a furrow appearing between his eyes. “It’s just the end of it, I think.”

“If you’re sure,” Eddie says hesitantly. _“Are_ you sure? Should we go to the hospital? You’ve been throwing up for a while.”

“It’s just food poisoning,” Richie murmurs. He scrubs at his face, then lays back down on his back without pulling the covers up, rubbing his belly in slow, long circles. Eddie strips off his clothes and climbs in bed beside him. “It’ll pass. I’m okay, I just wanna sleep.”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers. He sits up against the pillows in the darkness and pulls Richie up against his chest. He takes over, pushing Richie’s hands aside with a light touch before he rubs over his stomach. He’s still bloated, but significantly less than he was before. When he shifts, his stomach churns underneath Eddie’s palm again before settling, making a quiet, moist gurgling sound. Richie groans quietly.

“I still feel like shit,” Richie mutters. “But my fucking— My stomach hurts so bad. Like, fucking _aches,_ Eds.”

“You’re really sick, sweetheart,” Eddie reminds him. He wraps Richie in blankets, then slips his hands back underneath them to keep rubbing his belly. Richie just whimpers under his touch.

“I feel like _shit,”_ Richie repeats. He looks so drawn and tired.

“Close your eyes again,” Eddie tells him. After a moment, Richie obliges. “Just rest. Go to sleep. I’m here, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Richie’s belly groans under Eddie’s touch, so he pushes in a little bit, and Richie burps, then moans. His stomach is still churning, but he’s so exhausted that he’s falling asleep anyways. Now and then, he’ll shift a little, a frown crossing his features as he swallows thickly again, a wet, heavy sound, but he doesn’t throw up on himself. He throws up in his mouth and swallows it three times during that, making disgusted sounds at Eddie every time, before he fucking _finally_ falls asleep.

His belly keeps roiling even as he sleeps, and it’s a fitful rest, but at least he’s finally sleeping. Eddie continues rubbing his belly, just in case it’s still helping. His adrenaline is still too high to fall asleep yet, so he just keeps going. He keeps it up for a while, stroking over Richie’s flushed skin over and over. After about an hour, he dozes off, too.

When Eddie wakes up, Richie is still asleep. Since he’s stopped moving, Eddie drowsily starts rubbing his belly again. Richie makes a bleary sound, groaning slightly. He shifts under Eddie’s hands, getting more comfortable as he slides into wakefulness. Eddie feels his bloated belly rumble again, a snarling gurgle that festers up into a disgusting burp, moving under Eddie’s hand. In a split second, Richie’s throwing off the blanket, all but falling to the ground in his haste to grab the trash can and vomit thickly into it.

Eddie grabs his phone, seeing a message to the group chat from Bev that says, _Ben’s still throwing up this morning. Normal, or?_

He taps out a reply, saying, _Keep him hydrated. If you’re worried about him being too sick, take him to the hospital._

 _Im really sorry guys,_ Bill sends next.

 _ill kill him for the rest of us,_ Mike messages.

 _Richie’s going to kill him if you don’t,_ Eddie texts back. After a moment, he sends, _He’s still vomiting, too. I’m preemptively cancelling dinner tonight._

 _I’ll never eat near Bill again,_ Bev sends. Eddie huffs a laugh.

“Mocking me?” Richie asks, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed again. He keeps the trash bin in his hands, holding it between his knees. His head stays bowed over it, breathing heavily, but doesn’t vomit again yet. After a few moments, he swallows thickly, then glances back at him.

“Antagonizing Bill,” Eddie answers.

“Tell him _fuck off, love, Richie,”_ Richie grumbles at him. Eddie texts that into the group chat and sends it.

 _I deserve it,_ Bill texts back. _Im fucking dying at my own hand over here. this fucking sucks._

 _You’re telling me,_ Bev replies. _Ben threw up in the car on the way home._

 _so did both of us,_ Mike sends.

 _Alright, goodbye,_ Eddie messages, then locks his phone and sets it aside. He scoots up beside Richie on the bed, rubbing his belly and kissing his cheek. Richie turns into him slightly, feeling less warm than he had last night, at least.

“Bill said he deserves it,” Eddie relays. Richie nods, turning his face into Eddie’s neck, leaning heavily into him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Horrible,” Richie tells him. “A little better than last night.”

“You’re probably over the worst of it,” Eddie says.

 _“Probably,”_ Richie echoes, horrified.

“Pretty much definitely,” Eddie amends hurriedly. “You’re getting better now, you’re gonna be okay. I can go out and—”

“—No.”

“…Or,” Eddie offers instead, “I can ask Stan if he’ll go out and get you ginger ale and more Gatorade and whatever else you need. There’s not much we can do for food poisoning until it’s over except keep you hydrated and comfortable.”

“Stan’s my best man now,” Richie grumbles. “Fuck Bill. I don’t even know why I _considered_ Bill. _You_ get Bill.”

 _“I_ don’t want Bill, Bill poisoned you,” Eddie says. “He tried to make me a widow before my time. I’m not interested.”

Richie huffs a dry little laugh. It’s the best sound Eddie’s heard in roughly twelve hours. He burps, then pulls away to retch and then spit into the trash can. When he comes back in, he’s yawning again. He buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder.

“Get some more sleep,” Eddie tells him. “I’m sure you’ll be up again soon.”

Richie nods blearily, burrowing into Eddie’s side and exhaling, low and slow. He takes another deep breath, and then another. He swallows thickly, then settles again, curling up in Eddie’s hold; Eddie shifts them, tips them on their sides so he can spoon Richie from behind. He reaches around him to keep rubbing his gurgling belly. Richie makes a soft sound, then yawns. His stomach churns.

“Go to sleep,” Eddie whispers again. Richie nods against him. He dozes again, fitful and restless, his stomach roiling through it, but he stays asleep. Eddie keeps faithful watch over him, smoothing Richie’s hair back from his face, curling close around him and holding him while he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)! I'm currently taking commissions there!


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